


cereus

by seasincarnadine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Arguably Canon Compliant, Christmas, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 05:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9056422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasincarnadine/pseuds/seasincarnadine
Summary: It's the Christmas of '98.
"Hermione grinned up at Harry or rather, what she could see of his face, hidden behind the scarf and glasses. She grabbed him by the back of his coat and pulled him down into a hug; the layers between them so thick, it felt something more like cuddling a marshmallow."





	

**Author's Note:**

> a Ushanka is one of those Russian fur caps.

 

 

_cereus_

seasincarnadine

 

 

 

 

Hermione glanced up from the page as the grandfather clock tolled. Despite the late hour, embers were still simmering in the fireplace; in the dim outskirts of the common room, a gaggle of fourth years were huddled over a table, murmuring. Beside her on the lounge sat Ginny, her hair burning luminescent in the firelight. She had her feet tucked up beneath her, one of her hands splayed over her knee as an enchanted brush coated her nails in varnish. 

 Hermione stretched from her position on the lounge, the thick tome in her lap like an anchor. Ginny looked up, her cheeks and nose cut sharp by shadows.

“Heading off?” she asked.

Hermione settled back against the cushions. “No not yet. I’m not tired.” 

Ginny hummed idly, watching the brush again. “While I’ve got you, I’ve been meaning to ask; will you be joining us for Christmas this year?” 

“Oh.” Hermione flicked her gaze to the redhead. “I’m not sure yet. I don’t know what my family’s doing.” 

Her words hung between them like a presence. 

“Well,” Ginny said after a pause, “just let Mum know, she keeps asking.”

“Of course.”

Ginny held up her finished hand, swivelling it in the air as she examined the polish. Apparently satisfied, she placed her unpainted hand on her knee and the brush, reloaded in polish, swooped over. “Have you finished Christmas shopping?”

“I still have a couple left. You?”

“Same, I haven’t bought for George. Or Harry,” a dull smile twitched across her lips. “Though I wonder if Harry wouldn’t prefer nothing from me.”

“Don’t be silly, you’re important to Harry. He cares about you.” Hermione stared down at the book on her lap, it’s binding creaked as she mindlessly flipped a page.

“Not enough to bother sending me a letter,” Ginny smirked suddenly. “Maybe I’ll get him a letter writing kit for Christmas.”

“Gin,” Hermione started, caught between sympathetic and defensive. “He just needs time.”

“You keep saying that. Mum keeps saying that.” Ginny’s eyes glinted in the firelight as they trailed the glide of the nail brush. 

“I don’t know how much waiting around a girl’s supposed to do,” the redhead continued, softly. “Seems like for years I’ve been waiting around for Harry Potter.”

Hermione studied Ginny, tracing the delicate features that were pinched in what could’ve been concentration or something else.

“I thought the waiting would be over after the war.”

“Ginny.” Hermione reached out, resting a soft hand on the arm of Ginny’s sweater.

The redhead looked up, smile in place and held out her hands. “Well?”

Hermione watched as the nail varnish flashed between red, green and gold. “Very festive.”

Ginny nodded in approval, scooting across the seat. “Now let’s do you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The door to _Scrivenshaft’s_ chimed as Hermione slipped out into the snow. She tucked her scarf over her mouth and tromped down the street, winding through clumps of shoppers. Before long, she paused to peer through the window of _Krychek’s Creatures;_ a newer addition to Hogsmeade. 

She leant close enough for her breath to fog the glass; for a sparse second it clouded, until the anti-condensation charms dissolved it away. In the front, a tank of fat lumpy toads was displayed; each of them modelling colourful hats and vests. Beyond the toads the store was dim, lined with shelves of things she couldn’t quite make out. Through her own reflection, Hermione could see yellow and orange eyes blinking back at her. 

As she pulled back, she noticed a taller frame reflected beside her own. 

“Shopping for a new pet?” Came the familiar voice.

“Crookshanks' Christmas present, actually.”

He paused. “I knew I’d forgotten to buy for someone.”

Hermione grinned up at Harry or rather, what she could see of his face, hidden behind the scarf and glasses. She grabbed him by the back of his coat and pulled him down into a hug; the layers between them so thick, it felt something more like cuddling a marshmallow. 

“How are you?” she asked into his shoulder. 

“Busy but good. You?”

“The same,” she said and pulled back just enough to look at him. From the way his eyes crinkled, she knew he was grinning into his scarf. 

“I hear you might not be joining us at the Burrow this year,” he asked earnestly, studying her carefully.

Hermione felt her stomach clench. She cast her gaze back to the shop window. “Did Ron tell you that?”

“Mrs Weasley. I think she’s especially determined to have everyone together this year.”

Hermione sighed, watching the way her forehead scrunched in the glass. 

“You know you don’t have to come.” Harry shrugged, an awkward, familiar gesture that usually would have made her smile. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” she murmured.

“You have a family of your own.”

“You and the Weasleys are my family too.”

“But we’re not your only family.” 

Hermione chewed her lip, ignoring the weight of his eyes on her.

“How are things with your mum and dad?” he asked, voice softer than before, almost lost in the noise around them.

“Better, it’s - we’re almost back to normal.”

“And you don’t want to ruin what you’ve rebuilt.”

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. Without looking she knew he was frowning; guilt darkening his countenance for something she’d told him time and time again, was not his fault.

“You know,” he piped up. “The Weasleys would probably be happy to have your parents too.”

“Ron did offer, but I’m not so sure that would be a good idea. The Weasleys will need some privacy and I don’t know how receptive my parents would be to the idea.”

She watched him studying her in the window, before he turned to watch the toads with her. For a moment they observed silently. Hermione eyed a toad in a velvet vest; the garment featured workable pockets and was decorated in what she hoped weren’t real gems. 

“That one,” Harry said, pointing to a toad in a pink Ushanka. “Reminds me of Umbridge.”

Hermione shivered, though a small smile was prying at her lips. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

“It’s uncomfortable,” he muttered, squinting at the toad, which croaked back silently. 

Hermione chuckled softly and linked her arm through his. She pulled him away from the storefront and into the throng of people bustling by.

“Wasn’t I meant to be meeting you and Ron at _The Three Broomsticks_?” she asked.

Harry nodded, letting her tug him through the foot traffic. “He’s with Ginny, picking out her present. I was on my way there when I saw you.”

Hermione threw him a furtive glance, only to be annoyed by the scarf guarding his full expression. They swerved around a group of Hogwarts students, spilling out from _Honeydukes._  

“You should talk to Ginny,” she spoke suddenly, without pretence. “She deserves to know where she stands.”

Harry frowned, his brows pulled low over his gaze. They were specked with flakes of snow. 

“I know.”

She sighed. “She won’t wait forever, you know.”

His frown deepened and Hermione felt sorry for putting it there. She slipped her hand from his elbow to his hand and squeezed through their gloves; the gesture clumsy with the wool between their fingers. 

“I don’t expect anything from you, Harry.”

He scrubbed his free hand through his hair. “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

“I just want you to be happy - all of us do - so, do whatever will make you happy.”

He looked at her, eyes bright behind his frames, Hermione couldn’t tell if his mouth was turned up or down. Not for the first time, she thought that his eyes were more beautiful in winter; more brilliant against his paler skin and the paler landscape.

“C’mon,” he spoke, startling her from her reverie. “It’s just up ahead.”

His hand fell away from hers as he strode ahead, leaving Hermione to hurry after him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 The door swung open with a bang.

 “Hermione!” Ron chirped clad in a grin and a crimson sweater.

Hermione looked up from her suitcase, splayed open over the floral bedspread. A small smile lifted her features. “Hey.”

He swept across the room to tug her into his arms. Her hands slipped up to rest against his back, the wool itchy against her wrists. Ron pressed his lips to her crown.

“I knew you’d come,” he said, voice muffled in her hair. 

Hermione frowned into his chest. 

“Mind, not treating my stuff like that, Ron?”

Hermione stepped back to see Ginny, her hair pulled back and her hands on her hips; a pose frighteningly reminiscent of Molly. 

“You don’t own this door,” Ron scoffed.

Ginny ignored him, instead turning her smile to the brunette. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Hermione nodded, her lips quirking briefly. Her wordless response settled over them awkwardly for a moment.

“Anyway,” Ginny said quickly, eyes on her brother. “Mum wants you with Charlie. Don’t think you get out of helping, just because your girlfriend’s here.”

Ginny turned on her heel, and slipped out the door. Ron rolled his eyes at her back, before turning his age to Hermione. “I’d better head down. You coming?”

“I’ll be down in a sec,” she gestured to her suitcase. “I’ll just finish unpacking first.”

“All right.” He gave her shoulder a final squeeze, his thumb pressing in the hollow of her clavicle, even through her jumper.

As soon as he disappeared, Hermione let her eyes fall closed, a silent breath parting her lips. She dropped onto the bed, the springs squealing under her. She traced the embroidered quilt cover with her thumbnail; an old design, with loose spreads that she’d used innumerable times before. 

With an audible sigh she stood, and began filtering through her possessions. Before long, a rap on the wooden frame caught her attention. Harry stood in the doorway, wearing an old blue Christmas sweater. The hem was frayed and the sleeves were too short, revealing the white shirt beneath. 

“Heard you were here.”

“Yes, I think everyone heard Ron’s shouting.”

Harry smiled. “Might’ve tipped me off.” 

Silently, Hermione reached out for him, and before she could blink, she was ensconced in warmth and something minty. She wrapped herself around him, her cheek resting at the crook of his neck. One wide palm pressed into the dip of her back.

“How long are you staying?” he asked, his voice breezing by her ear.

She clutched the worn wool of his sweater, soft and tired beneath her fingers. “I’ll leave tomorrow morning,” she murmured. “Spend Christmas lunch and dinner with my parents.” 

She felt rather than saw him nod; his hair tickled her temple. 

“They’re okay with it,” she said, unprompted.

“Okay.” 

Hermione gripped him for a moment longer, and then let go. Her nails caught on loose threads as her hands fell away. They didn’t step back, but rather stood silently, nearly touching.

Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I should probably get back, before Mrs Weasley comes looking for me.”

“Harry, there’s nothing you could do that Mrs Weasley wouldn’t forgive.”

He laughed quietly, the ghost of something happy. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Hermione’s chest clenched. “If this is about Ginny-“

He waved her off. “Don’t worry, it’s not. It’s nothing.”

Her brow creased as she watched him turn away, headed for the door.

“Wait,” Hermione blurted. “I need to give you your present.”

He stopped. “Now? We always do presents Christmas morning.”

“I know, but this can’t really wait all day. In fact, I think it’s getting impatient.” 

She didn’t stop for his reply, but rather hurried into the open closet. In the cluttered room, a thin wire cage sat atop a short stool; green ribbon tied around the handle. Carefully, Hermione plucked it up. Beaming, she turned to face Harry, who was hovering on the threshold of the room.

“Merry Christmas, Harry.”

From the cage an owl hooted; it peered between the wire with dark round eyes. Hermione watched as Harry’s face melted from surprise to something gentle and more than a little sad. Slowly, he reached out and unlatched the door. As soon as it swung open, the owl hopped out, it’s talons wrapping around his wrist. It’s plumage - silver with strokes of black - shone even in the dim light. 

Harry held out his free hand, letting the bird nip his fingers. A smile lurked at the corners of his mouth.

“She’s gorgeous.”

“He,” Hermione corrected gently.

“He.” 

He stroked the feathers under the owl’s chin. The bird preened, it’s eyes slipping closed. Hermione stood back, the empty cage still cradled in her arms, and watched; content to give the two of them time to become acquainted. 

“What are you reading at the moment?” Harry asked suddenly.

Hermione blinked as he moved back into the bedroom, the owl still perched on his arm. She followed, watching as he bent over her bedside table that housed a stack of books. He picked up the one on top. 

“ _Alchemy, Ancient Arts and Science_ by Argo Pyrites,” he read aloud. 

Harry paused, humming in thought, then he reached for the next book.

“ _Why I Didn’t Die When the Augurey Cried_ by Gulliver Pokeby.”

Again he paused, his eyes trained on the silver owl. 

“Gulliver Pokeby,” he repeated. “Any good?”

The owl hooted. Hermione crossed her arms. 

“Are you talking to me or your owl?”

He spared her an amused glance, a smile stretching across his face. “I’m talking to Gulliver.”

An answering grin bloomed on Hermione’s face. “Really? That easy?”

Harry shrugged, studying the owl nuzzling his hand. “I think it suits him.”

Hermione joined him by the bed. She ran crooked fingers down the back of Gulliver, gliding smoothly over the sleek feathers. “I suppose it does.”

“Thank you.”

She met his bright green eyes over Gulliver’s head. “I’m glad you like him.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The boards creaked as Hermione stepped onto the porch. Light spilled out behind her; an orange glow outlining her figure and lighting up the fibres on Harry’s sweater. He sat on the steps, Gulliver perched on his shoulder. Hermione shut the door. The air bit at her cheeks; especially sharp after the warmth of the Burrow.

She dropped down beside him, their denim knees bumped on the narrow stair. Gulliver hooted softly and Hermione reached up to scratch him.

“How is he?” she asked.

“Good,” his voice was scratchy. “He’s already been out flying for a bit.”

She nodded.

Behind them, domestic noise squeezed around the cracks in the door. Hermione closed her eyes, picturing the Christmas feast; piles of food that didn’t draw eyes away from empty chairs and crooning music that couldn’t quite fill the uncomfortable silences. A night full of laughter that was too heavy to ever fill the room, of averted eyes and bonbon offerings every time someone’s eyes welled up. 

George had been the first to retire, and with him most of the superficial cheer. Harry had soon followed, murmuring something about Gulliver. With guilt, Hermione breathed in the frigid air, tasting relief.

“All right?” It was Harry’s voice that broke the silence.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. You?”

Harry nodded. She reached out to squeeze his nape, his skin hot on hers. 

They sat silently, staring into the still night, their breath billowing around them. Her fingers were quickly turning numb and stiff. She recalled nights where all of her had grown numb, sitting stiffly for hours a weight around her neck. Hermione shivered. 

The silence was broken by Gulliver’s wings as he took flight from Harry’s arm, swooping out into the dark.

“I’m going to head back in,” Hermione said.

“Yeah,” Harry said, standing. “It’s freezing.”

Together they stepped back into the Burrow. Sometime since leaving, the house had quieted; most of the lights were off, the hint of orange glowed somewhere past the kitchen, a soft murmur creeped out towards them. Hermione winced, thinking of Ron. 

With the barest of light they navigated the house, Hermione almost bumping into something once or twice; she didn’t need light to see Harry’s smirk. Just as she was jabbing him with her elbow in retaliation Harry stopped. Startled, Hermione hesitated at his side. They were hovering in the open frame of the kitchen; the light and voices closer than before, a beacon filtering from across the opposing door.  

“Harry?”

He was staring up at something, Hermione followed his gaze. A sprig of mistletoe hung above their heads, the delicate white flowers barely visible in the dark. A laugh bubbled up out of Hermione. She had been the one to put it there earlier that day, waving her wand under Ginny’s direction while the redhead made snide remarks about Ron.

Hermione dropped her eyes to Harry’s, preparing to smack a kiss on his cheek or chin. Before she could, icy fingers pressed gently against her jaw, tipping her face upwards. His glasses glinted in the minimal glow, obscuring his gaze as he leant towards her. 

She stilled - her hands, her mind, her breath - as he pressed his mouth to hers. Her heart thrashed wildly against her ribs. Harry’s lips were warm, their touch injected her with heat that bloomed through her cheeks and travelled all the way down to her toes.

“Harry,” she whispered, the dry skin on their lips catching.

With his hand still cradling her jaw, he pulled away. Hermione took a breath. Harry hesitated, his finger still grazing her skin, before leaning in again. Hermione’s heart jumped. Her pulse throbbed in her throat, only to sink with what might have been relief, as his mouth brushed against her temple.

“Merry Christmas, Hermione,” he murmured into the skin, hot enough to brand.

He stepped back, severing all the connections between them. Hermione watched as he strode across the kitchen and out the door. 

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” she spoke to the dark.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this on Christmas morning, and really wanted to have it posted on the day. I missed the deadline here in Australia, but I'm fairly certain somewhere in the world it's still Christmas. Unbeta'd so please point out any mistakes if you catch them!


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